


Code Red

by something_safe



Series: Shooting Flares into the Void [1]
Category: Bandom, Comics Industry RPF, Killjoys - Fandom, My Chemical Romance, The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Kinda Weird, Korse being Korse, M/M, Party is an irresponsible shithead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2426744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/something_safe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the fall out of a fire fight, Party Poison goes looking for medicine, and finds pretty much the exact opposite of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Code Red

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to tuesdaysgone for listening to me ramble about the criminal lack of Party Poison/Korse fic and then listening to me halfwittedly hash out this rushed piece of gratuitous porn. Enjoy!

Party Poison is raiding a roadside café, once small and quaint, now as skeletal and decayed as everything in the desert.

He’s in Zone 5, North East of the city, and the wind whipped sand has left the exposed skin of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose red raw. He’s turning the place over with purpose, seeking out a First Aid kit or desk drawer with some painkillers: earlier today they had a pretty nasty run in with a band of Dracs. Though they had used their collective viscera to daub ‘LET’S PARTY’ on the sand (Ghoul had suggested ‘Die Fascist Scum’, but Party thought it a bit predictable) they all still suffered new scars atop of sizeable healed ones.

In particular, Kobra got a fairly gruesome char wound in the back of his shoulder, and with Jet Star on his way to Dr. D to listen out for incoming retaliation, that left only Party and Ghoul to decide who would stay with the Kid. It wasn’t exactly a serious wound, but if he got rushed by Dracs on his own, he’d be a ghost for sure.

Party gets pretty antsy in situations like that, fingers itchy for the trigger and heart sick with the heebie jeebies, so he’d volunteered to go on a med hunt instead.

Now, one ear still ringing after proximity damage from the Dracs’ hand grenades, he moves with less awareness than usual, cigarette drooling smoke into the air and eyes heavy. His blaster is tucked down the back of his jeans, and occasionally after tossing a cleaning supply closet or a set of lockers in the back room, he’ll touch it to reassure himself of its presence.

He comes nose to nose with it when he turns out of a walk-in freezer and it takes him a split second to register why he never heard Korse come in through the creaky front door.

Raising his hands in surrender, he steps backward. Korse clicks to load the charge on his gun, the cartoon yellow looking out of place and surreal in his chalky hand.

“Honey, you’re home early.”

Flicking his hair back, Party scans the room to find some escape or weapon, but there is none to be had.

“Y’getting lazy, Red.” Korse is chilling, even in the sticky desert heat, shoulders set like a tombstone in the doorway of the walk in. He smiles like a skull and Party shudders. “Making all that noise, s’like you wanted me to find you.” 

Party bristles a little: he’s caught between the chest-imploding realisation that he’s been stupid and the awareness that he knew exactly what coming out here alone might mean. 

Ignoring the feeling crackling up inside him like expanding ice, Party waves off the words like a bad smell.

“Deaf in one ear.” He says, matter-of-fact. “If this were this morning I’d have had you begging on your knees before you’d even gotten through the door. Someone else has already worn me out today, still a little sore I guess.”

Korse’s thin mouth doesn’t move, but his opaque black eyes seem to shine with the threat of a smile.

“’Shame it’s not this morning,” he murmurs in his low burr, “I hate to get your sloppy seconds.”

“Oh honey, they’re just as good as my firsts, usually,” Party purrs. Now the surprise has worn off, excitement is blaring through his body like the vibration from a woofer.

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Eye back in, Party uses the opportunity of Korse’s complacence to roundhouse the gun out of his hand. It goes off with a zinging crack, the charge ricocheting off the wall behind him, and in the split second it takes for him to catch the smoking butt of it in one ready hand, Korse has recovered enough to pull his regulation white faithful.

“There we are, now we can pretend like it’s this morning,” Party grins, and gets a mirthless baring of teeth in response.

They both fire without warning. Even in the confined space, Party skids out of the way just in time, his own charges singeing two satisfying eyes through the swinging hem of Korse’s frock coat. He's a better shot than Korse by a mile but not as good a fighter in close quarters, so when Korse bluffs a shot then kicks Party's foot out from beneath him, he goes down like a sack of shit; lands close and grunts as Korse neatly uppercuts him with the toe of one Italian leather boot. He loses his gun in the lurch; lands on his back so hard that blood from his chin sprays across the tile. Swift and unrelenting as rain, Korse goes to follow through with another dizzying blow and Party kicks out to defend himself. He lands one solid kick against Korse’s ascending gun hand, disarming him and probably breaking a couple of fingers, but then recoils when the resulting misbalance transforms into a convenient slam of elbow into ribs.

Winded, Party can’t even gasp for breath because Korse’s hands are suddenly fastening around his neck, heedless of injury. His grip is iron clad, eyes flinty with anticipation as he slams Party’s head back against the tile, sending the room into a whirling kaleidoscope of pain. Even with one of Party’s feet wedged hard against the joint of his hip, knee against his chest, he can still put enough weight into his movements to squeeze him dizzy, the scrambling and clawing of Party’s hands pathetically ineffective.

“This really is a sloppy second, Red,” Korse breathes, drooling carrion and seething hatred with every word. “S’like your heart’s just not in it.”

Stomach squirming and face hot, Party chokes on a response, sucking in a wheezing breath and gripping helplessly at the bunched fabric at Korse’s shoulders. With hands around his throat and weight on his thighs, he feels physically confused, vulnerable and empowered.

“Well- I didn’t wanna make you feel bad—” he hacks, “old guy like you, s’probably hard going--”

“How sweet of you…” Korse grins now, but it’s not a nice grin. Party likes it though, it looks good on his usually stony face.

“Mm- well I do what I can, y’know. Ego’s a fragile thing and I know you’re very attached to yours. I’m very philanthropic that way.”

“Oh you are, Party,” Korse agrees, “you always do seem ready to take one for the team.”

“One of my many—hck-- charms and attributes. I’m a giver.” Party deadpans.

Korse’s grin doesn’t widen, but it takes on a new shape, this one much more genuine- though it still has echoes of shark-like ferocity in every note.

“S’at why you’re always so eager t’get on your back for me, huh?”

“Well I know how much it gets you off.”

“Seems you know a lot about me and my preferenes.”

Party grins, and Korse’s study of him is unwavering, face so close Party can see the fine dusting of stubble around his jaw.

“Gotta know what you’re up against,” he says evasively. 

“Physically or metaphorically speaking?”

“Both.”

Korse seems to compute that, and when he speaks again his voice is lower, softer. 

“I know you’ve been watching me, renegade…” he whispers. He breathes in sharply, like he’s sniffing Party out, and then he’s leaning in to lick the wet stripe of blood from Party’s chin. “I’ve been watching you too.”

Party’s eyes roll back a bit: he’s getting dizzy from the laboured breathing- or maybe it’s from Korse’s words, and the sudden redirection of his blood. Korse steals a glance downward and smirks. 

“Mm, very sloppy, today,” he muses, but Party can hardly hear him, instead watching how his tongue flashes red with the blood on his tongue- Party’s blood- when he talks, “almost like you wanted me to find you.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? That’d really tick yer freaky fuckin’ boxes, wouldn’t it, big guy—” Party protests, but that smile doesn’t fade; it’s suddenly the only thing Party can see in sharp focus, and he can’t help but wet his lips; admit when the silence stretches on a beat too long, “— though I guess it ticks mine too…”

Korse doesn’t kiss him, though he looks for a second like he wants to. Instead he bares his teeth, hands slipping from his neck to grab at his jacket, hauling him upright effortlessly. Party gasps for breath.

“Must be hard for you,” Korse hisses against his mouth, breath hot, “all that anarchist pride, and yet for me you’re fucking pathetic. You must hate it, that you that you could run me off; that you could fight me… but you don’t want to.”

“Mmh- either that,” Party gasps, giving his own heavy-lidded grin, “or I fucking love every second of it.”

Korse drags him out into the kitchen of the café without another word, and Party never thought the cold steel of a catering counter would be something that could turn him on even more, but when he hits it bloodied chin first, hips pressed painfully against the lip and the immovable weight of Korse behind him, he lets out a surprised groan.

Korse makes no noise; barely seems to breathe as he yanks Party’s dust-crusted jeans down around his thighs, hands rough and dry. 

“Ah-!”

Not expecting the cold, Party squirms a little to keep his flesh from the metal, but Korse presses one firm hand against the base of his skull to still him and he quickly complies, hands slipping on the dusty counter.

He doesn’t expect the sudden damp touch of Korse’s fingers around his cock, either, but this whole situation is pretty unexpected. He whines at the pressured strokes, arching weakly, and he hears Korse huff a half-laugh.

“Y’look good like this, Party Poison,” he purrs quietly, “suits you, bent over with your legs spread.” Party’s quickening bursts of breath cloud the steel under his cheek, but it’s wiped away when Korse presses two long fingers into his mouth, thumb hooking under his jawline almost tenderly as he bends low to skim the cold point of his nose behind Party’s ear. His breaths hitch minutely at the eager motions of Party’s tongue; the continual rocking of his hips into the tight tunnel of Korse’s fingers.

Pressed this close, Party can feel the rough fabric of Korse’s slacks against the back of his thighs; the way his own hips rock very slightly to press tight; eliminate any space between them.

“You’re so warm,” Korse wonders aloud, voice rough against his ear, and Party can’t help the whimper that escapes him at the words, “you feel…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, just sighs, and his fingers are suddenly gone from Party’s mouth, pressing firmly between his thighs to stroke around and then press-

“Awh- fuck-!”

Party is a noisy lay, but even he’s a little unprepared for how good it feels, like a dam breaking between them, all the spit and fire and venom in the slow push of Korse’s fingers. He arches, caught between the stroke of his hand and the pressure inside him. Korse lets out a low bell of laughter; makes a beckoning motion with his finger that triggers another string of expletives. 

“Oh shit yeah-”

Heedless of the fuss Party kicks up, Korse continues his ministrations at a maddeningly steady pace, and Party is all set to start goading him again before he feels both Korse’s hands withdraw from his flesh and instead finds himself groaning at the loss. “What’re you-?”

Korse’s hand fastens over his mouth with bruising force, Party’s face fitting in the vice of his thumb and fingers like it was made for it. 

“Just shut up, for one moment,” Korse murmurs, and Party can hardly reign in the whines that bleed out from between the clasp of his fingers. The feeling of spit dripping into the crease of his asscheeks steals another shocked moan from him and then the he feels the teasing rub of Korse’s cock; the wet, thick press of the head of him, sinking in slow slow slow and then all at once, so deep that Party all out moans into his palm, eyelids fluttering shut. 

Korse fucks like he fights, fast and without holding back. Party’s whole body moves with the surge of his hips, until he’s trapped tight against the edge of the counter, the cold bite of metal digging bruises into his flesh. The thick drag of Korse’s cock inside him sets off white hot sparks, need swelling in his belly and down his thighs. He whimpers again into Korse’s palm, his own hands pressed flat and tense on the steel counter, just concentrating on keeping his knees from buckling under each jagged thrust.

When Korse’s free hand slips from Party’s hip to his slick, aching cock, Party knows he’s drooling against his hand now; can’t help it, overwhelmed with pleasure so sharp it’s almost painful. The strokes Korse gives him are tight and so wet with precome that Party is almost embarrassed, but he can hear the sounds of Korse fucking him; can feel how slipsoft and open he’s getting and he knows he’s not the only one. 

It’s so good, too good. Korse keeps fucking him like he was made for it, the hand on Party’s cheeks bruisingly tight, and with the stroke on his cock, his fingers squeezing just the right side of too-hard on every downward slide, he’s pushing Party closer and closer to the edge.

“Going to let me finish inside you, Party Poison?” Korse croons in his ear suddenly, his body a hot weight against Party’s back, voice like a tidal wave and hips pounding into him relentlessly . “Going to let me fill you up with come and send you on your way with it still leaking out of you?”

Party couldn’t speak even without Korse’s hand over his mouth, so instead he answers by trembling and coming with a shattered moan all over Korse’s hand and the front of the steel cabinets he’s pressed against, the noise leaking through skin and bone. He shakes with the ferocity of it, startled and not entirely unconcerned by it, but then he feels Korse’s hands grip his hips, making him arch his ass back and up as he fucks into him harder still. 

“Mmh-!”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Korse grits, and he comes hot and deep inside him, the heat of it making Party clench and whine reflexively. Korse’s blunt nails dig dark crescents into the flesh of his cheeks, and as the motions of his hips die into twitches, he relaxes his grip a little, petting almost absently over his cheek and hair. 

They stay like that for a moment, panting and limp, and then without a word seem to simultaneously stutter into action like toys with new batteries, separating and taking a moment to compose themselves on opposite sides of the room. 

Picking his gun up off the tiled floor, Party tucks it into his holster and wriggles a little to adjust his jeans, self-consciously smoothing back his hair. When he looks over, Korse seems as composed as ever, not a scratch on him. He’s reading a small tablet, expression neutral. At Party’s tentative step toward him- toward the door, he catches his gaze and holds it. 

“Go on then, Red,” he says, with that shadow of a smile gleaming in his eyes again. “Go show the others what I’ve done to you. Tell them how you fought me off, but I was gone before you could kill me, then lie in the dark tonight and remember how you really got those bruises, mm?”

Party feels his heart rate spike at the words. In the heat of the moment, he’d almost forgotten about the consequences of him turning up back at base covered in bruises and char with a split chin. He turns to go, cringing slightly at the sudden sensation of gravity kicking in. As he traipses through the wrecked café and out toward the Trans AM, he feels Korse’s gaze scorching his back.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Party wonders distantly how Korse knew he would be alone.


End file.
